


the things that i was learning all wrong

by runninohhoney



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Gen, Kent "Parse" Parson Positive, Outing, and don't forget all the parallels and character shit, bitty experiences the consequences of his actions, but he tries to be honest and fair and has good intentions, i'm telling y'all kent and whiskey are THE SAME CHARACTER for bitty, like whiskey is roughly as tall as kent... they both wear black hoodies to the kegster, overuse of italics but this is a check please fanfiction what else did you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runninohhoney/pseuds/runninohhoney
Summary: “Whiskey, I… that's nice, but,” and Whiskey turns around and God, Bitty hates this moment more than anything. “I did… I told, someone, um. I told Jack about this.”Or, Bitty experiences what is very close to the worst night of his life, and the 2017 Kegster happens differently.
Kudos: 28





	the things that i was learning all wrong

**Author's Note:**

> oof, do i have THINGS to say about this. i guess this is the kind of fanfic that i just wrote because i had to get the scene out of my mind, but after i wrote the first 500 words i found myself going back at it everyday until it became the small monster that it is today and i was like, i HAVE to post this now. so here it is.
> 
> and yes, i am critical of the comic, but believe me when i say i wrote this mainly out of love for bitty. i love him and i see myself in him so it's pretty disheartening to see him sliding happily through life with no permanent hardships or conflicts that stem out of his flawed personality and morality. bitty would make such a more fascinating character if, now that he's dominated the sport he used to struggle with and came out to his family, he could also learn from his mistakes and realize that he's not perfect and he can do lots of things to be a better captain, friend and person in general. and i can't squeeze a lot in just a night, but i feel like it's enough to make him see himself through a new perspective and in return be more fair to the people around him.
> 
> and there's NO way parson cares enough about jack's boyfriend that he met once and probably doesn't even remember to drive to the haus just to apologize to him (for what????), and i stand by 4.19 being a tub-juice induced fantasy in bitty's brain that he laughed at when he woke up the next morning, so i'm playing with that too. i'm both amused and very fascinated by the narrative in which bitty gives way too many fucks about parse when he doesn't even remember his face and treats him like the stranger that bitty is in his life. so you'll be getting that here too!
> 
> this fic starts in the 4.10 update and then skips to the updates happening during the kegster, aka 4.18 and 4.19. the title is from mariana's trench "so soon" which isn't by any means a bitty song but IS a jackparse song, and if you're not into that, then it's just a really heartbreaking song about ending a relationship and failing to move on.
> 
> i hope you guys get a kick out of my re-imagined version of the kegster night and let me know your thoughts about it if you want (:

So. Bitty might have messed up a couple of things.

At the beginning, he'd tried to tell himself that it was okay: after all, had it been his fault that he had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time? That his eyes had caught them in the worst moment? That Whiskey had looked back? Not really. In retrospect, nothing could've been done about it.

He had felt the tiniest bit better after talking it out with Jack. Or so he'd tried to believe, whatever. But two days later, mind buzzing with the arrival of Coach to Samwell and the increasing pressure as a captain as they moved towards the playoffs and the deadline for his senior thesis coming closer and closer, he finds himself at three in the morning, fingers cold as he uncovers them from the blanket to go through some forums for advice.

He gets some reassurance from the first disclaimers on the questions and answers - yeah, he knew the whole thing had been an accident, but when he exhales he feels like the pressure in his chest is a little more forgiving. Most of the replies are telling him more or less the same thing that Jack had told him: give them space, wait for them to open up if they want. And Bitty wants to be careful, but the fear that he saw in Connor’s eyes that night still gives him chills whenever he thinks about it.

Then, he gets to the longer replies, warning against outing people when dealing with situations like those. At first, Bitty scrolls fast past them: he wouldn't ever think of ever telling on him about it. But it's the wording of certain questions what has him clenching a fist under the blanket, the way someone opens their post by immediately saying that they asked a friend about it but didn't say any names.

If his performance on the ice and willingness to work together in the team were testament of something, it was that Whiskey wasn't holding anything against Bitty and that he was somehow doing okay with all of this, which should be enough for Bitty, and he was slowly coming to terms with that. It wasn't easy, and everything inside him was begging him to talk to him and find a way into his mysterious heart, but maybe Jack was right. No, Jack  _ was  _ right. He had to leave him be.

And it wasn't like Bitty was planning on telling it to the whole world, much less anyone on the team or around them. He  _ knew  _ better, of course he did. Jack had been the exception - after all, Jack was his best friend, his closest confident: if he wanted their relationship to be built on trust, then he had to be honest with him.

So. Bitty had told someone. Just  _ one  _ person.

And then his stomach drops. Bitty  _ told _ someone. He  _ outed  _ Whiskey to someone.

His finger is slow and firm on the screen while his heart threatens to jump out of his mouth, and there it is.

> _ Whatever you do, DON'T OUT THEM. If you want to ask for advice to other irls, be careful not to mention any names or any heavy hints that could compromise them. Just… don't be an asshole. _

Maybe he deserves the sting on his eyes when he locks his phone and tries to fall asleep. The pounding on his chest that he can't regulate no matter how many times he tries with the breathing exercises he's seen Jack do. The feeling of inadequacy, which takes a little longer to place and to name, which washes his body with an unsettling feeling of  _ deja vu;  _ it's been too long since he last felt it. And then, just when he's about to lose consciousness, and not enough to keep him awake but bad enough to slip into his dreams and tint them with the fear and embarrassment he'd thought he had left behind, the guilt arrives. And stays.

It stays through the conversations with his dad, and it's there to welcome him in the Haus after he promises to take Jack to meet their parents in Madison. It sweeps under his skin as he falls asleep alone in his childhood bed some weeks later, mixed with the nerves and anger and anxiety. It's there when he comes back to Samwell, another weight over his lap when he sits down in front of a desk and judging, disappointed eyes who yet again remind him that he  _ doesn't have enough time. _

It's on the cellies after Whiskey scores off Bitty’s passes, when his eyes sparkle under the Faber’s lights in the way that they never do out of the ice. It's in the little smile he gives him when they all meet in the middle, and the guilt gets under the adrenaline and the happiness and it rumbles inside Bitty’s body, louder than any horn could ever.

And it's there on the kegster after they make it to the regionals. It's after a win, and Bitty drinks and bakes and laughs and plays the best beer pong he's played in a while, but he still feels it when he glances around the room and sees Whiskey. His shoulders are a little less squared, his hands on the pockets of his jeans relaxed enough that he could easily blend in with the rest of the crowd. There's a hint of a smile when Tango slaps a hand on his shoulder, when Foxtrot tugs the sleeve of his hoodie to whisper something and laugh on his ear, when he types his fingers on his phone and cranes his neck high to take a look at the hallway.

And Whiskey  _ deserves  _ it, all of this: the glory and the happiness and the excitement. But Bitty remembers the words he’d read, the secret that he had spilled to Jack the second they reunited, the trust he betrayed and that Whiskey knows nothing about.

That's why when he casually plants himself in front of Bitty after cleaning the porch, eyes just a little bit soft on his blank face, and thanks him for keeping his business to himself when that's the opposite of Bitty had done, he can't take it.

“Whiskey, I… that's nice, but,” and Whiskey turns around and  _ God,  _ Bitty hates this moment more than anything. “I did… I told,  _ someone,  _ um. I told Jack about this.”

Whiskey takes a step back, angling his entire body in direction to Bitty - and Christ, he's going to  _ punch  _ him, isn't he - and Bitty flinches, raises both of his arms in front of his body, and suddenly feels like he's back on freshmen year, staring at the cold blue of Jack’s eyes as he yells at him to quit - and he shakes the memory off him violently, heart clenching and racing on his chest.

But Whiskey doesn't move at all. It's only because Bitty is so focused on his face that he can see the ever so slightly shift on his expression, and that hurts way more than any punch or kick would have ever.

Whiskey’s bottom lip falls on a grimace. “What the  _ fuck, _ Bitty.”

“It's not- I didn't plan it - ‘course I didn't, I didn't  _ want  _ to hurt you, I would've never…” but he  _ did,  _ and the words die on his mouth. He stops looking at his hands, but Whiskey might as well be a picture on the wall, frozen and quiet on his place.

Then, he raises both of his eyebrows. “And here I thought  _ you'd _ be the only one who'd get it,” he says in a huff of laugh, bitter sarcasm spilling through the words, and  _ ouch. _

“Connor, I  _ do -  _ it's just Jack, no one else.”

“ _ Just  _ Jack. Just one of the most famous players in the NHL who happens to be in the spotlight for all the  _ wrong  _ reasons. Wow, I am  _ so _ relieved!”

He claps his hands on his jeans and this is the most angry and  _ terrified  _ Bitty has ever seen him, but his face shifts again when he looks to the side. It must be someone there - Tango, probably, because Whiskey makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, tilts his head in an  _ it's okay  _ gesture, and then breathes in, deeply. Bitty twists his thumb with his other hand, clammy and cold and trembling.

He wants to speak up - the wrong reason, what on earth is that supposed to mean? -, he wants to say it's not his fault that he saw them there, he wants to say that Jack would never do that to him, but he knows he shouldn't. It's easy to indulge himself and turn the situation around, to look at Whiskey hovering over a short, terrified kid and see who has the upper hand, but Bitty messed up. And Whiskey’s right: he should've  _ known. _ Lord knows that he can't do anything to ease the pain Whiskey is going through right now, because he betrayed him. But heck, he's still going to try.

“I told- I just talked to him about this ‘cause I'm,  _ worried  _ about you, Connor", he says, voice high and broken and it's kind of pathetic, but it's the truth. And this is the only moment he has to tell him.

Whiskey has both hands on his hips, and Bitty wonders why he never realized how slim he actually is. In front of him, with the worried pull on his brow and the hair falling on his eyes, he looks young and lost in a way that reminds Bitty too much to himself to ignore it.

But then he pulls his eyebrows up and his voice it's firm and severe when he speaks. “You're not... my  _ mom,  _ Bitty. You're my captain.” He seizes himself, taking a step back and looking at Bitty with hooded eyes. “That's all that I need you to be.”

Bitty stands there, jaw dropped with all the words he wants to say but knowing that it would only make things worse, until someone- until Tango appears on the scene. Bitty can see the bounce of his hair crossing the frame of the arch, but little else.

“What?”, Whiskey turns his head and snarls, and he immediately flinches at himself. With a trembling sigh, he drags a hand over his eyes, and when he uncovers his face he looks as pulled together as he was two minutes ago, murmuring a quiet  _ sorry  _ to his friend.

Bitty won't think about how this is the most expressive he has even seen Whiskey in the one-and-a-half year they've known each other, he  _ won't.  _ It still hurts and he fists his hands against his chest.

“Someone's looking for you,” Tango says, and he sounds weirdly… excited? Like he's containing himself. Bitty is vaguely aware of the way his own eyebrow raises, and for a fraction of a second he wishes that he could see Tango’s face properly.

But then, the disappointment in the last look that Whiskey gives him before leaving the room is enough to shrink him back to his place, and he doesn't hate himself enough to look at Tango’s reaction to the way Whiskey behaves around him. He wouldn't know what to say. Well,  _ not  _ the truth, obviously. That's what it had gotten him on this mess in the first place.

He knows Whiskey will keep that conversation to himself, and that both calms him down and makes him jittery with guilt and embarrassment.

“...all wet, and I'm not risking another injury,” comes then from- from somewhere in the back? Bitty turns around, but there's no one there. He forces himself to look inside the living room, doing so by swinging on the tip of his toes, a hand on the arch frame. There's only Whiskey there, with his back at the door, and Tango with a hand scratching his hair and the other holding a trash bag, and the unrecognizable bodies of the last people exiting through the front door. Tango’s dark blue eyes fall on him for a second, and Bitty can see all the questions he's probably biting back - but he swings back to his place before Whiskey can turn around, bringing a hand against his chest again.

Now that it's quiet again, he hears the voice again- no, it's another person. “...fucking Swoops, man,” and a quiet snicker, a male voice darker than the first one and then the sounds of steps somewhere outside. Bitty looks behind him: there's no way it's not  _ at least _ two in the morning and the music had been turned down twenty minutes ago. Who could even be here now?

Bitty breathes deeply and takes the necessary step to rest his weight on the arch leading to the living room, crossing his arms in a gesture that is supposed to be slightly menacing but mostly defensive. “Um, is any of you guys waiting for somebody...?”

Then, three things happen at the same time: Whiskey turns around and opens his mouth, Tango raises his index finger and looks ready to intervene, and the back door leading to the dumpster opens. Loudly.

“Sorry, the porch was all wet so we thought-"

Bitty turns around harshly, heart on his throat- and then he slams against a body. A black hoodie, hands pale and flinching in the air. Not quite managing to swallow down a grunt, Bitty forces himself to look up, and he almost  _ whimpers  _ when he sees the faint playoff beard, blonde and patchy. The wide-open eyes, blue under the living room light. The cowlicks that the snapback can't really hide.

Because Bitty can't have a normal horrible day. No, he has to go and have it all, have the  _ worst _ day of his entire life, because the universe couldn't have spared him with the instincts to turn on the other way, or speak to Whiskey in any other room, or give him a minute to compose himself and then hide in the bathroom for half an hour. Because of  _ course  _ the universe hates him enough to have him bumping against  _ Kent freaking Parson _ on the goddamned day that he randomly decided to drop by a kegster again.

“Shit,” Kent Asshole Parson automatically says - but there's no bad blood behind it, not really. His eyebrows finally go down, face relaxing into an apologetic grin. And like this entire encounter isn't somehow enough, Kent Parson  _ pats him in the shoulder,  _ like he's a kid? “Careful there,” and with that, he walks past over him.

Bitty is about to say something - anything between the range of a venomous and sarcastic  _ oh it's all well, dear!  _ to a too-sincere  _ what do you think you doing here? _ \- but his mouth just stays open because Parse lifts the arm from his shoulder, crooking his elbow up so he passes it  _ over  _ Bitty’s head, instead of dropping it to his side like any normal person would. And it's not like Parson is that much taller, so he only narrowly avoids hitting Bitty on the side of his face, the hem of the hoodie sleeve even brushing his ear for a fraction of a second, but it's enough to shut him up. To make him step to the side as Parson enters the living room, his teammate trailing behind him while mumbling an  _ excuse me,  _ Whiskey turning around in a swift motion that shows no surprise whatsoever and Tango producing a sound that's it's neither a gasp nor a scream.

And then, Kent calls-people-worthless-for-a-living Parson gets Whiskey on a  _ bro hug  _ and puts a friendly hand on his shoulder.

_ “Yooo,  _ how’s it going? Sorry I couldn't make it here sooner.”

Bitty and Tango drop their jaws at the exact same time, and it's almost funny. Key word almost.

“Goodness gracious,” Bitty murmurs, low enough that no head snaps at him to look past the living NHL legend himself.

(Not that he'd ever admit that out loud, of course.)

And why is- why does  _ Kent Parson  _ know Whiskey? They don't even live on the same state, and there's no way Whiskey has ever mentioned the Aces - well, not in front of Bitty, at least. Heck, even  _ Dex  _ was way more into the Las Vegas team than any other person in the team had ever. Bitty still remembers it too well: glancing at Jack during the casual discussion about the NHL season on the bus during roadies, worried eyes searching his captain’s face at the mention of that name. Jack’s reactions going from a laughable attempt at a poker face to balled up fists on his knees, almost imperceptibly shaking on his seat.

But Parson, why is he…  _ here?  _ Why would he care about some random sophomore in a league he must obviously consider way below the NHL standards? Does he still check in with the NCAA stats even after Jack graduated from Samwell? He knows that Whiskey’s  _ great,  _ he's seen it first hand and the stats don't leave much room for interpretation. It's the thought of Kent Parson  _ caring  _ about other people that sets him off.

Well, he thinks, raising his eyebrows. To be fair… it's not like he  _ knows  _ a whole lot about Kent Parson, anyways.

A purposeful cough is enough for Bitty to snap his eyes up and realize the sudden silence in the room and the way that every eye on the room has landed on him. He swallows down a little surprised yelp, taking his shoulder off the arch like it's on fire and planting both feet hard on the ground, although it doesn't even help him to hold the illusion that he has any control in the situation.

All of a sudden, he's struck with the realization that Whiskey and Parse have a bit more in common than anyone would see in the first place. It's kind of an automatic response to the way their postures mirror each other, leaning in the back of the couch and no more than a feet of distance between their black-hoodie cladded bodies. Both of them are people that Bitty had accidentally caught in very personal moments, both of them are closeted athletes in a sport that, despite of his own growth during the last three years and the culture in the team that has allowed him to be himself, still gives him nightmares every once in a while. Bitty has come to know about their sexuality for one reason for another, yet never because they've _opened_ to him about it. In fact, their personalities still remain a mystery for him - and it's not a surprise from Parse, how is he supposed to know him at all? Whiskey, on the other hand...

His mind, unforgiving, causes his heart to drop to his stomach one more time when it asks, how would  _ Parse  _ react if he knew that he  _ knows? _

Bitty realizes that it's been two more seconds and their eyes are still on him. He sets his own on Parse, because he can't bring himself to look yet again at Whiskey’s eyes, no matter how little less worse his next best option is, and Kent raises an eyebrow. It's… not patronising, just curious.

“What?” he ends up asking, feeling his ears grow hotter and hotter with every second that passes. Great, that's just… fantastic.

“I said, you sure we're not bothering anyone?” Parse glances around the trash bags and after-party mess surrounding the cursed couch. “We could bring this to another place, if you'd like,” and he points a casual thumb to the kitchen, and there's  _ no way  _ that Bitty will let them there, no way that Kent Parson will put one foot in his precious kitchen, not if he can do anything about it. He's pretty sure the horror he feels is enough for it to show on his face, but Parse’s hand drops naturally to the side, his gaze relaxed yet tentative.

Bitty shakes his head, forcing his lips to curve in a smile he doesn't feel at all. “Oh, no, it's all good! Y'all make yourselves at home, yeah.”

And with that said, he slips graciously out of the living room and into the kitchen. The smell of the pies is faint and well hidden under the stench of sweat and alcohol of every kegster, but it's still there, and Bitty breathes in deeply, carefully staying out of sight off the living room. His fingers grasp the cold surface of the counter, finally allowing him some time to wind down and wrap his head around the chaos that the last five minutes of his life have been.

It's only after the ninth deep inhale that he convinces himself that it'll be  _ fine.  _ That Parse won't talk to him - and he better doesn't, because boy oh boy, does Bitty have a couple of things to tell him -, that Whiskey won't talk to him again, which is more of a good and a bad thing rolled into one huge complicated issue. That this night will be over soon, and after he's done with the kitchen he'll get in bed and cuddle Señor Bun and have a wonderful, uneventful night of sleep, and in the morning everything will feel smaller and clearer.

He glances at the mess on the countertops and the table, and just barely misses dipping his shoes in a puddle of tub juice in front of the sink. Well, he better gets started right now, then.

He doesn’t  _ really _ glance at Parson. Lord knows he doesn't  _ want  _ to do it, but the kitchen table is a proper mess and he spends quite a long time on that, and there's a good view from there to the living room, and Bitty’s heart finally slows down and he feels  _ safe  _ on the relative privacy of the kitchen, so he just does. Without the spectacle, without the practiced moves of someone who spends way too much time giving smiles that are never more than a polite front, without  _ Jack  _ there, Kent Parson almost looks like a real person. He  _ acts  _ like a real person, in the way he mindlessly scratches his scruff, or rubs his eye with a tired pull on his mouth, or casually gestures with his hands while Whiskey nods in response, or pauses to throw a knowing smile to his teammate while he speaks to an overly excited Tango.

Bitty is used to the guilt creeping in every thought that he has, so it's not a surprise that it also comes in while he looks at Parse from across the hallway. He's not used to admitting he's wrong - and who actually wants to ever admit it? - but watching Parse crack Whiskey’s unbreakable front and even put a sincere smirk in Ford’s perpetually confused face does put some things in perspective. After all, it's not even about who Parson actually is. He won't find it out tonight or anytime soon. But it was his judgement that got him here in the first place, and  _ maybe _ he can give Parson the benefit of the doubt. Jack had never  _ told  _ him everything about them, and in all honesty, he doesn't need to know. And maybe Parson was an asshole and expected way too much from people that couldn't give him what he wanted and was a dirty player in the ice, but Bitty can't exactly  _ hate  _ him for the two and a half things that he knows about him. It was… none of his business. The thought makes him immediately pull a face.

...which is immediately washed away as Foxtrot comes into his vision field, right where he had spaced out on the Aces captain. He feels stupid for blushing - he hadn't been caught doing anything  _ wrong _ \- but he still turns around, too fast to pretend that everything was okay.

It takes Foxtrot ten seconds of Bitty glaring at the clean sink until she opens her mouth.

“Um,” she starts, looking like she’s one second away from yelling  _ What the fuck?! _ “What the fuck is going on here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”, he says, but it’s with enough hesitation that Foxtrot just arches an eyebrow at him.

“Bitty, there’s two  _ guys _ \- I don’t know who, but Tango hasn’t stopped talking since they got here and there are those LAX bros outside  _ queueing  _ for selfies. And- you know how Tango is, he  _ hasn’t  _ stopped talking. Turns out that one of the guys is his… second cousin? Or whatever. And it’s half past two? And Whiskey’s like,  _ smiling _ and such. And...” she pauses for a second and Bitty stops glaring at the corner of the counter like it had kicked him in the face. “You’re stress baking, again.”

Bitty actually blinks at that, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “I am not-” but then he feels it, the soft texture of the dough under his hands, even some patches of flour where his hands had methodically prickled it over the counter. Huh.

“I don’t  _ stress  _ bake, I just bake,” he murmurs, sounding just as unconvincing as before. Foxtrot nods automatically, sighing at the lack of response.

“Well, the living room is almost done. That, uh, NHL guy is surprisingly good at cleaning. I’m gonna be heading out soon, as soon as the… as soon as Tango stops babbling and gets those fucking selfies done.”

“Thank you. That’s Kent Parson, by the way,” Foxtrot stops on her tracks and turns her head, then back at the figure on the living room, arms crossed and hip cocked on the edge of the filthy green couch. Bitty sighs at the modest pile of freshly baked pies from that night, almost accusatorily  _ looking  _ at him from the other side of the kitchen, and he pulls out a roll of plastic wrap from the cabinet. It’s way too late for pie making - he has to set some limits, right?

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Foxtrot mumbles after several seconds, her face a mix between embarrassment and confusion.

_ He  _ isn't supposed to know who that is. Bitty looks at her eyes to avoid eyeing Parson, waving his hands around from the corner of his eye. He quirks his shoulder up. “I guess not.”

Foxtrot pulls out her phone anyways, eyebrows pulled together in concentration while she quickly types on the screen. “Well,” she says after a moment, to no one in particular, “he  _ did  _ roll up in a Ferrari, so.”

Bitty shrugs again and Foxtrot leaves, the bow on her hair high and bouncing as she walks with her eyes glued to her phone.

He doesn't bother with an actual mop, exhaustion be damned as he kneels on the floor to dry the last wet spots with a kitchen cloth. It's  _ fine,  _ he knows Farmer will be in the Haus tomorrow morning so they'll squeeze some money out of Chowder to buy a new one. Once he's done, he clasps his hands together at the sight of a mostly clean room, just as Parse pats Whiskey’s shoulder and even throws a hand up in direction to the kitchen, slowly making his way out of the Haus.

Bitty doesn't return the goodbye, which feels like an afterthought anyways. No, his body shuts down again when he looks at Whiskey, finally facing the kitchen again, with his eyes on the floor and a blush spreading on his cheeks. A faint smile, tight-lipped and  _ sincere  _ pulling at the corners of his mouth. It's another stolen moment, but Bitty takes a second to feel  _ proud  _ of him. He deserves to have the captain of a successful NHL team recognizing his talents, dropping off tired and worn out after a game just to talk about what can't be anything else than talks to get him to sign with the Aces. He deserves it, and as a captain, as someone who  _ cares,  _ Bitty is happy, and he's proud.

He knows he doesn't get the right to celebrate it with him, but he lets his face show the pride while no one is looking at him. And that should be enough, he thinks.

He scrubs the flour off the counter from his aborted attempt at baking a pie at almost three in the morning, which gives him enough time to hear the tadpoles make plans to take an Uber and finally head home. And actually, and it's a scary thought and an even scarier move when he steps in the hallway right as Whiskey trails behind Foxtrot to go home, Bitty  _ does  _ have one last thing to tell him before he leaves.

“Wait,  _ Whiskey",  _ he says through his teeth clenched in fear. Whiskey turns and Bitty won't look at his eyes again, not tonight at least, but the curve of his mouth is the same as usual. It doesn't really give him anything to work with. There's a hint of the flush he'd seen on his cheeks, one that will probably disappear as soon as he stands in the porch. Bitty sighs, forces himself to not wrap his arms around himself. “I'm  _ sorry.” _

There's no way of knowing what his reaction is, not with the way Bitty’s eyes drop to the ground immediately, but from the corner of his eyes, Whiskey nods. Once. Professional. Bitty doesn't want to find out what his face is doing to accompany the gesture, and then Whiskey turns back around, and closes the door behind him.

Someone turns off the lights in the living room, footsteps on the stairs only illuminated by the ones in the second floor, and with his face hidden by the darkness of the hallway, Bitty’s facade finally breaks. He allows himself a minute to breath, to count the tears that stream down his cheek and into the collar of his shirt. Then, he turns off the lights in the kitchen and drags himself upstairs to give an end to this extremely shitty night.

The thing is, and just wishing for this makes the guilt come back and makes him want to smack himself and wonder if this wasn't enough to learn why it isn't a good idea, he wants to talk to Jack. Wants to sit down with him, under his attentive stare and soft demeanor, wants to crumble in his arms and be held back. But there's no way that he can do it. Firstly, because Jack is a good forty minutes car drive away from him, and he shouldn't _ even  _ be thinking about all the other reasons why he needs to shut up about this. Even though the damage is already done, and Jack is the only person he can have this conversation with, he won't. Not after tonight.

It doesn't stop him from missing him. After washing his face on the bathroom -and God be damned, those are some  _ huge  _ eyebags right over his cheekbones- he gets a little more clarity. He  _ can  _ talk to Jack. It doesn't have to (and  _ won't)  _ be about Whiskey, but he can still talk to him. It's not like he doesn't have any other problems: he could totally look for some captaincy advice now that they're closer to the Frozen Four. Or talk about that damn thesis deadline. Or how the graduation day is getting closer and closer. Or what expects him after Samwell. Or maybe  _ not that,  _ he mentally notes as he flinches at himself in front of the mirror.

Or Parse, he thinks at the same time that he spits a mouthful of toothpaste in the sink, and it's not on  _ purpose,  _ but it's still a funny coincidence and he sees an attempt of a smile on his face in the mirror. Maybe Jack would like to know about Parse.

It's a little bit past 3am, but Bitty types the message in bed anyway, hands clammy on the screen of is phone. Groaning softly at the buzz in his brain that will probably make him fall asleep past four  _ again,  _ he wishes that Jack sees and answers to the text in the morning.

_ (3:09) You'll never guess who stopped by tonight _

With a deep sigh, he slides a hand under his pillow and nuzzles against Señor Bun, hoping that his exhaustion is larger than his anxiety so that he falls asleep soon.

He almost jumps at the loud clatter of his phone vibrating on the night stand. And well, if he had expected his heart rate to drop anytime soon, he definitely isn't now.

His motherly instincts kick right then -  _ what is he doing awake at 3 in the morning?  _ \- but it's a Saturday night, and the Falconers didn't make it to the playoffs so it's  _ okay _ , so he just sits up in bed. The phone almost slides out of his hands when he goes to unlock it.

_ (3:11) Yes parse right? He told me he'd drop by the kegster after his game. _

_ Um, _ a voice supplies in Bitty’s mind, and it sounds suspiciously a lot like Foxtrot’s.  _ What the fuck? _

Settled comfortably on the bed, he still feels like his stomach is dropping on the darkness. How did he… What was that supposed to mean? Did Jack read about it somewhere - but Bitty would've seen that first, he's  _ always  _ on his phone. Did one of his teammates randomly mention it? Georgia? Anyone? But he reads the text again, and it’s right there: Kent  _ told  _ Jack. And it’s a little hard to wrap his head around that: Jack and Kent on speaking terms, when his heart still clenches on his chest when he remembers the things he had told him on that December night.

But Kent had been a different person tonight. Calm, intuitive,  _ nice,  _ even. If he imagines that Kent on speaking terms with Jack… but, still.

He zones back in to realize he’s left Jack on read. Jack, who knows exactly how Bitty feels about Kent, and is he…  _ worried  _ about his reaction? Bitty bites his lip, his thumbs drawing circles in the air over the phone keyboard, clueless about what to say.

He briefly considers sending a chirpy  _ why are you awake at 3 in the morning?  _ text, but then he forces himself to type an answer that does the most to ease Jack about this… whole Kent thing.

_ (3:13) Oh? _

Yeah, that’ll work just fine.

He sees the three dots on the screen and pulls the duvet to cover his shoulders. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d called Jack instead. Maybe not at  _ 3 in the morning,  _ but the next morning would’ve been fine. It's a given that he’d feel calmer about everything if he could just hear his boyfriend’s voice, but right now he wishes he could at least listen to the inflections of his tone, have the tiniest guess of what his feelings about this are. He could’ve tried to type more than a single word if he’d  _ knew  _ \- but he doesn’t. His skin prickles at the uncertainty.

Finally, the three dots disappear. Bitty curses under his breath and flips to the other side of the bed, where the wifi connection isn’t as wobbly, and the messages start popping on screen.

_ (3:14) Yeah haha. He texted me on wednesday? Said his team was heading to Boston, but he wanted to stop by providence first. _

_ (3:14) We went to a restaurant and all _

_ (3:14) I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as I got to Samwell. _

Bitty can almost see the apologetic smile on Jack’s face, his clear eyes firm but hesitating. The unsaid  _ sorry if I didn’t tell you before.  _ He then thinks about the things he shouldn’t have known in the first place, the history between them that Jack had oh so casually shared with him two years ago. Back then, he had thanked him about his honesty, but the words that he'd read on the same bed nights ago haunt his memory and he bites his lip. He doesn’t- he  _ shouldn’t _ know all the details, he knows that.

He looks down to see another text appearing on the screen.

_ (3:15) But he told me he wouldn’t talk to you? Evrything ok? _

_ (3:15) Yes!! He just talked to Connor _

_ (3:15) Oh honey, you don’t have to tell me  
if you don’t want to :) _

And then, because that’s the only thing he needs to know:

_ (3:16) Did it go well? _

It takes a while for Jack to reply. Bitty tucks Señor Bun under his chin and tries to stop his eyebrows from knitting together.

_ (3:17) Yeah, it went well. _

He still remembers the way his heart froze when he saw Jack on that Kegster, his tall figure shaking all over, the fear on his eyes. The slam of the door that left his heart pounding. He believes Jack, now: he still wishes he was looking at his face, that he knew enough to know what to tell him, but it’s easy to picture him on his bed, a tiny smile pulling at his lips while he texts Bitty about it. And oh, he aches to be with him, he aches for a new day and week and month where Whiskey will stop giving him hard eyes and he’ll learn to forgive him - and in return, Bitty would  _ learn, _ too. But right now, with the knot on his chest slowly loosening up to welcome a night of sleep, with the knowledge of the closure Jack needed (and Bitty too, at some extent), he exhales deeply and curls around the blankets on his side. And he doesn’t fall asleep with a smile on lips, not by a long shot. But for now, it’s enough.


End file.
